Yancy
Lazarus is back and facing off against his most dangerous foe
yet—without the benefit of his magic. A breakneck thriller that'll
keep you turning the pages!

—Sam
Witt, Author of Half-Made Girls (Pitchfork County Novels)

Yancy
Lazarus just wants to be left alone. He wants to play his blues
music, smoke a few cigarettes, and otherwise leave the supernatural
world to fend for itself.

He
especially wants to be left alone by the Guild of the Staff—the
mage ruling body—where he used to work as a Fix-It man. But when a
little kid gets nabbed by an ancient Fae creature from the nether
regions of Winter and the Guild refuses to set things right, he just
can’t seem to heed good sense and leave things be.

Nothing’s
ever easy though. Turns out, the kidnapping is just the tip of one
big ol’ iceberg of pain and trouble. It seems some nefarious force
is working behind the scenes to try and unhinge the tenuous balance
between the supernatural nations and usher in a new world order. So
now, if Yancy ever hopes to see the bottom of another beer bottle,
he’s gonna have to partner up with an FBI agent—an agent who’s
been hunting him for years—in order to bring down a nigh-immortal,
douchebag mage from a different era. And to top it off, Yancy’s
gonna have to pull it off without his magical powers … Boy, some
days just aren’t worth getting out of bed for.

The
tunnel stretched out before me like the throat of some monstrous
serpent, icy blue walls radiating pale witchlight to guide my feet. I
shuffled along the winding pathway, trying for speed and failing
miserably. There was snow underfoot, but the powder was often
interspersed with patches of slick ice, which made the going
treacherous as hell. It didn’t help a lick that my feet were so
numb I couldn’t feel my toes, even though I had on heavy boots and
thermal socks. Every friggin’ step felt like a crapshoot and I
wasn’t quite sure how the dice would land.

I
heard a howl from somewhere back in the darkness, a warbling noise
that echoed and bounced around the narrow tunnel. I glanced back for
a moment, which is precisely when my feet skidded out from under me
and I went down hard, my ass connecting on the slippery ground below.
My hip ached from the tumble, but at least my head landed in a pile
of snow instead of on hard ground. I lay there for a moment, staring
up at the curved ceiling, simmering in indignation.

Why
me? Why couldn’t I ever just keep my head down and mind my own
friggin’ business? I felt like kicking my own ass for being such a
gullible, softhearted mook. Shit, the least I could do was be a
little more selective. Tell people I’d only do them favors if the
location was somewhere nice and beautiful … like say, sunny, sandy,
not-cold-as-balls Honolulu.

I
guess, technically, Thurak-Tir—home to the High Fae of the
Winterlands—was a beautiful-ish place, so long as you’re the kind
of person who doesn’t mind the arctic tundra of Siberia. The
buildings are impressive at least: slick spires of frost, carved and
sculpted into a thousand wonders; a house fashioned to resemble a
frozen waterfall; a palace made of snow and crystalline-rime in the
image of Yggdrasil, the Tree of Life; a tower in the shape of a
serpentine neck, complete with scales, topped by a massive dragon’s
head. Under the light of day, the whole city sparkles like a diamond,
and at night beautiful slashes of green and gold drift through the
air, a semi-permanent Aurora Borealis.

But
it’s also piss-freezing cold and only beautiful in the way a statue
is—lifeless, still, too perfect. And the residents are all the
same. Bunch of too-good-for-you, cold-hearted pricks. I absolutely
hate Thurak-Tir. Give me a warm New Orleans night in a dirty bar with
a crowd of shit-faced hobos any day of the week.

Down
in the subterranean caverns below the city, where I happened to be
trudging around, was even worse. Monsters, spirits, and a whole lot
of frigid air. The light of day never penetrated these depths, so the
cold … well, the cold seemed both malevolent and alive, like some
frostbite-belching yeti.

More
yowls and howls, followed by cackling laughter: Ice gnomes—not
nearly as cute or cuddly as they sound—closing in, and fast. Time
to move.

I
scrambled onto my hands and knees, gaining my feet like a clumsy
toddler taking his first steps, and shambled away from the chorus of
mocking laughter. Creepy little twerps.

If
I was going to make it out of this place in one piece, I needed
better lighting. Thankfully, I’ve got something a little handier
than a flashlight. I can do magic, and not the cheap stuff you see in
Vegas with flowers or floating cards or disappearing stagehands.
People like me, who can touch the Vis, can do real magic. Although
magic isn’t the right word—magic is a Rube word for those not
in-the-know. Users just call it the Vis, an old Latin word meaning
force or energy. Simply put, there are energies out there, underlying
matter, existence, and in fact, all Creation. It just so happens that
I can manipulate that energy. Period. End of story.

I
paused for a moment, and opened myself to the Vis. Power rolled into
me like magma from an active volcano, heat and life and energy
filling me up, sending renewed strength into my limbs. I was careful
only to draw a little and push the rest away—unchecked, the Vis can
be as seductive and dangerous as a beautiful woman with a grudge.

Weaves
of fire and air flowed out around me as I shaped that raw force; a
soft nimbus of orange light encircled me, granting both better
visibility and a small pocket of comforting warmth. Sure, it would
make me stand out like a dirty redneck at a posh country club, but
there was nothing I could do about that.

I
got moving again, huffing and puffing my way along. More frenzied
cries floated toward me from the tunnel twisting away behind. I
needed to move faster, but the gloom still hampered my progress,
forcing me to slow down and take my time. Even with the combined
illumination from my construct and the ghostly witchlight bleeding
from the walls, I could only see a few feet out. This was a night
place, a dark place that fought the intrusion of light and heat with
tooth and nail.

Even
going sloth-speed, I almost didn’t see the cliff until my feet were
over the edge. I hollered and threw on the brakes in a panic—digging
in with my heels and pinwheeling my arms as I fell once more onto my
back. I landed with a whuff of expelled air and immediately sprawled
out my arms and legs. The greater surface area seemed to slow me down
a little, but not enough. My legs skittered over the side, drawing me
onward and downward. I clawed at the unyielding ice with numb
fingers, my thin winter gloves making it all the more difficult.

I
pulled more power, more Vis, into my body, and pushed thin strands of
fire out through my fingertips. Small divots blossomed into the
ice-covered surface of the floor, little grooves where my digits
could find purchase.

Unfortunately
my gloves began to smolder from the flame, the leather sending up
curls of gray smoke. I ignored the heat—survival was my first
priority. I dug in, giving it everything I had, arms and hands
straining with the effort.

At
last I skidded to a halt, my slide coming to a premature stop though
it was a damn close thing. The tension in my arms and hands eased up
as I slowly, carefully, pulled my hips and legs back from the
drop-off, though my feet still dangled out in the air. Past the
drop-off was blackness all the way down with no bottom in sight.
Admittedly, the soft glow surrounding my body didn’t do much to
diminish the gloom. Hell, the bottom could’ve been ten feet down or
ten thousand. Better not to find out by taking a leap.

My
heart thudded hard against my ribs. I’m not exactly afraid of
heights, mind you, but anyone would be apprehensive about the
prospect of careening off a cliff into potentially unending
blackness. I took one more glance over the edge and uttered a sigh of
relief. Whew. Dodged a bullet there.

I
heard a hoot of mirth just a second before something hard and heavy
collided into my back—a wallop right between my aching shoulder
blades.

My
fingers tore free of their meager holds and over the drop-off I went,
manic gnome laughter filling my ears as I fell. I tumbled down and
down, flipping through the air like a fumbled football. I caught just
a brief glimpse of a short, knobby form peering over the edge, his
whole stumpy body shaking as he cackled. Asshole gnomes.

I
lashed out with air—great columns of the stuff—directed down to
slow my descent. That was a start, but the construct wouldn’t keep
me from getting impaled on a giant icicle or busting my guts open on
a rocky outcropping.

So
next, I pulled in strands of artic cold, weaves of spirit and
reinforced bands of fae power, floating through the air like so much
dust. A shimmering bubble of green—shifting from emerald to pine to
jade and back again—snapped into place with an effort of will,
encompassing me in a tight globe of power, exerting a slight pressure
on my body. A small safeguard against pointy things and an air pocket
to cushion my body from the inevitable impact.

Splash-thud.

About
the Author:

Hey
all, my name is James Hunter and I’m a writer, among other things.
So just a little about me: I’m a former Marine Corps Sergeant,
combat veteran, and pirate hunter (seriously). I’m also a member of
The Royal Order of the Shellback—’cause that’s a real thing.
I’ve also been a missionary and international aid worker in
Bangkok, Thailand. And, a space-ship captain, can’t forget that.

Okay
… the last one is only in my imagination.

Currently,
I’m a stay at home Dad—taking care of my two kids—while also
writing full time, making up absurd stories that I hope people will
continue to buy. When I’m not working, writing, or spending time
with family, I occasionally eat and sleep.